Drop Dead
by PirateRina717
Summary: Mysterious deaths cause Sherlock to lock horns with politics. Rated T to be safe.
1. A New Case

**Title:** Drop Dead

**Author:** PirateRina717

**Summary:** Mysterious deaths cause Sherlock to lock horns with politics.

**Disclaimer:** I do not own BBC or Sherlock.

**A/N: **This is my first Sherlock fic, as well as my first murder mystery. Sorry if it is not up to standards; I tried to write what I thought would be the rapid visual clues that Sherlock finds. Also, it takes place before The Great Game.

**1**

Nancy Freeman sat at the restaurant table, laughing with her fiancé and glancing occasionally down at her food. Nancy happily twirled her engagement ring round and round her finger. "It was a lovely meal," she said, delicately wiping her hands on the linen napkin put before her. A waiter came and collected their plates.

"Will you be having dessert this evening, ma'am?" the waiter asked. Nancy shook her head.

"Come on, Nancy," said Nancy's fiancé, "Please?"

Nancy looked down at the desert menu. The chocolate cake looked delicious. "Alright," Nancy replied. "Chocolate cake, please. But only this once," she added.

Nancy walked up the stairs to her bedroom in the flat that she and her fiancé shared in London. He was turning off the television when he heard a thump. He hesitantly walked toward the stairwell. Nancy had come tumbling down the stairs. He rushed to her, but she didn't move. Blood was rushing from her head, but he knew, even as he called an ambulance. He knew that Nancy was already dead.

[0o0o0]

Anthony was scared. He knew he wasn't supposed to be wandering the streets at night, especially in his neighborhood. There was a can of pepper spray in his coat pocket, but that didn't help if you were carrying a gallon jug of milk in each hand. Why did Lydia insist on getting milk for the kids? It wasn't as if they would be awake by the time he got home. And Anthony knew he would be reprimanded for being late. Not that he could help it.

Suddenly, one of the gallons dropped from Anthony's hand. It splattered and leaked over the dark pavement. Anthony was puzzled. He didn't mean to drop it. Then, the other jug left his fingertips. Just as the milk joined the other puddle on the alley, Anthony clutched at his throat and collapsed.

[0o0o0]

Detective Inspector Lestrade held his head in his hands, sitting in front of the television with everyone on his team. They watched the news in silence, and they were horrified at what they saw.

"The two mysterious deaths of Nancy Freeman, thirty, and Anthony Carrick, twenty-two, are causing an uproar in certain parts of London," said the reporter. The television showed groups of people with signs reading, "CONSPIRACY" and "NO ONE IS SAFE".

"The people here," the reporter continued, "believe that some new government technology has been developed. Do you really think that's true?"

The reporter handed the microphone to a young man. He looked poor, with massive stubble, a beat-up sweatshirt, and yellow, gnawing teeth. His oily-looking hair fell in front of his eyes, and his face never seemed to change from a frightening glare. The subtitle gave the man's name: Rob Jones, head of the conspiracy theorist organization. "Yes," Rob replied. "This technology has killed. Killed two people! Without a trace of evidence as to why! And the police aren't exactly in a hurry to find out what killed them." Lestrade rolled his eyes. "The only explanation?" Rob Jones persisted, "The government has made a weapon that can make people die, just like that," Rob snapped his fingers, "and these two people were guinea pigs, and—"

"Thank you," the reporter interrupted. "Well, as you can see, it's a toss-up between disease, serial killings, and a government conspiracy. Now we must figure out which is the lesser of the three evils. Good night."

Lestrade switched the television off, and slammed the remote on the table in front of him. Most of the workers that saw the program went back to what they were doing. Lestrade sighed. "Do we have anything?"

Sergeant Donovan crossed her arms and stared at the black screen. "Nothing that connects them, and nothing that'll stick."

"Right." Lestrade reached inside his jacket pocket and took out his cell phone.

Sally looked at him and stood up abruptly. "You're not serious!" she cried. "How many times do need to hear that he is a psychopath before you stop calling that freak back like a forgiven dog?"

"Look," Lestrade answered, "the public needs to be reassured that this isn't a bloody conspiracy. The longer we leave this unsolved, the worse it's going to get. He's the only one who can get this done within days. And," Lestrade muttered as he searched for Sherlock's number, "he probably has more information on this case right now than we do."

[0o0o0]

John returned home with the shopping and heard the sound of a poorly played violin. John groaned and wished he were still at the store. There were only two explanations for Sherlock to play the violin badly. One: it was for some sort of nicotine-induced experiment. Or, the more likely answer: Mycroft had come for a visit. John composed himself and got ready for a dose of snobbery and sibling rivalry. He climbed the stairs and opened the door, just missing Mycroft's swinging umbrella.

"Ah! John," exclaimed Sherlock, sounding somewhat relieved. Mycroft turned around and nodded to John politely.

John lifted the groceries to exhibit. "I was just shopping," he said quietly, "do carry on." John walked to the kitchen table and started to unpack the food.

Sherlock turned back to Mycroft. "Where were we Mycroft? Ah, yes. You were just leaving. Horrible to see you, good-bye."

"Always so immature," Mycroft hissed. Then he smiled again. "John," Mycroft asked without taking his eyes off Sherlock, "I was just inviting my brother to a small state dinner. You are invited, as well, if you wish to attend."

Sherlock snorted. "You were not asking me to come, Mycroft, you were forcing me to come. And it's not a small party. How many people are coming? Seventy? A hundred?"

"Twenty, at the most," Mycroft replied calmly. "I thought you would be flattered, Sherlock. Some colleagues of mine are very interested in your work."

"By 'interested,'" Sherlock spat, "I'm assuming you mean that I will entertain your guests with obvious facts, or," Sherlock smiled slightly, "they have something to hide, and you want me to find out what."

"I'd bet on the second one," John called, putting eggs in the refrigerator.

Mycroft sighed. "I'd do it myself, Sherlock, but these are candidates for Parliament."

"Parliament?" asked John.

"Yes. I have to entertain as a host properly, and I can't do that and observe them as well. Please, Sherlock. It's only for one night, for Pete's sake."

"The answer's still no," Sherlock stated, playing a sour note on his violin. Mycroft grew impatient, tapping the end of his umbrella repeatedly on the floor and pursing his lips in a way that John took to be only used by the filthy rich.

Finally, Mycroft snapped. Or, so it appeared, for Mycroft rarely showed emotion beyond his threatening stare or his diplomatic smile. "Do I have to remind you, Sherlock," Mycroft uttered with disdain, "that I can make you a knight?" Sherlock jerked suddenly, the violin revealing a horrible whine. His eyes narrowed to slits, and now he, too, pursed his lips. "Fine," Sherlock grumbled, "I'll go."

Mycroft smiled devilishly and once again began twirling his umbrella. He turned to John, who was a bit scared by the angry Sherlock. "Do come, John," said Mycroft, returning to his careful, political way of speaking. "Perhaps, you can persuade my brother to behave." Without another word, Mycroft left 221B Baker Street, leaving an uncomfortable silence in his wake.

[0o0o0]

Sherlock was getting bored. Knighthood was fast becoming a less painful option than the one that he chose, and Sherlock was seriously considering leaving the table. Though having John there was giving him a strange sense that he should behave, Sherlock was about to lose his nerve. Mycroft was correct in his estimate of the number of guests attending his dinner; however, he was less than truthful when he forgot to mention that their egos could fill about five thousand people. Their unrelenting, dull quibble was making it hard for Sherlock to refrain from throwing up all over his food. It didn't matter to him; he thought the food was disgusting anyway. Besides, Sherlock already had profiled the men who sat around the table with him. Only one was interesting, but Sherlock didn't have the energy to expose him.

The vibration of a cell phone silenced the table again. For the fifth time, a man named Reeves took his phone out of his pocket. He apologized once more, and angrily stuffed his phone back into his jacket. Attempting to distract his colleagues from his constant interruptions, Reeves took out his wallet and passed it around the table. When it reached Sherlock's hands, he saw that it was a picture of Reeves' children.

Sherlock was drawn out of his thoughts by the eyes and laughter of every man at the table directed at him. Obviously, somebody had made a joke. Sherlock looked to John for assistance, but he laughed nervously and grimaced a smile. Sherlock casually passed the wallet and waited for his brother's colleagues to make the first move.

"So, the great Sherlock Holmes," said the ex-soldier and wife beater, Harrison. His crooked, yellow smile was so revolting that Sherlock frowned even more. "I had no idea you two were brothers."

"Indeed," replied Reeves, the only man with an interesting background. "I hear that you are 'inspired' frequently. Is that true?"

Sherlock faked a smile and turned to Reeves. "How do you mean?"

Reeves leaned forward at the table, as if the thing he had to tell was a matter of life or death. "Well," he whispered, "the word on the street is that you are a bit of a freelance junkie. Takes one too many injections to get your brilliant ideas." His cocky grin waited expectantly for a response. To his left, Sherlock saw John tense and turn his knuckles white by holding a fist under the table.

"I would be careful what streets you walk, then," Sherlock replied coolly, "for it doesn't take a genius to know what I know. For example, I could assume that you are a widower of about a year. But that's just what you tell everyone, isn't it? Especially the young ladies you entertain."

Reeves stiffened and his grin vanished. Mycroft leaned forward at the table in response. "Sherlock," he warned, "Mr. Reeves' wife died last year."

"No, she didn't," Sherlock stated. "She's dying, but she's not dead. Cancer, right? What a shame, you leaving her in the last months of her life. Just because she wasn't attractive enough to make a successful politician's wife. And now you squander what money you have to spare on loose women. Sorry, _really_ loose women." Harrison and Palmer chuckled behind their clean napkins, and Reeves' jaw became so clenched that a slight grinding noise escaped his lips. Sherlock wasn't fazed. "You see, Mr. Reeves," Sherlock continued, "I just observe. I didn't take any drugs to lead me to this conclusion. It was obvious."

Reeves fumed. "Is this what you wanted, Holmes? To use your brother to make a fool out of me?"

"I assure you, Mr. Reeves, that my brother—" Mycroft began.

"Is leaving," John interrupted. John scurried over to the smug Sherlock and pushed him out of the room. As they neared the end of the hall, Sherlock heard Palmer from inside the dining room. "Really, Mycroft, you should bring your brother to more of these dinners. He's quite entertaining!"

They descended from Mycroft's house and onto the night streets of London, and John hailed a taxi. For the most part, the ride across London was silent. John shook his head and looked out his window, and Sherlock looked between John and his window, partially wondering what he did wrong.

"You're upset, aren't you?" Sherlock said at last.

John scoffed. "Yes, I am, actually. Thank you for noticing." Pause. "How'd you figure out all that stuff about Reeves?" John hated his need to know the answer to that question.

Sherlock smiled slightly to himself, and then began. "The faded tan line on his left ring finger shows that he was married, but about a year ago, something happened. One would assume that his wife was dead, but I also noticed that there were stains on his pocket-handkerchief that were inflicted by constant use to wipe his tears. Why would that be there? He obviously tells this story a lot."

"Alright," John agreed, "but how do you know that his wife is still alive?"

"When Reeves opened his wallet to take out a picture of his revolting children, I saw two cards: one for a private hospital, and one with tips about cancer care. Moreover, Reeves' phone kept buzzing throughout the entire dinner, but he would never pick up. He would look and see that it was the same number calling him again, since his expression gradually turned into annoyance. Now, his business associates must have known that he would be attending this dinner. Who would call him frequently and not know about this? His wife in hospital, who has cancer. Reeves left her, and now does not want to speak with her. Judging by their children's photo, I would hazard a guess that Mrs. Reeves is not very attractive either. So, Reeves leaves her about a year ago for someone more attractive. Reeves also smelled of three different types of perfume, ones that I sincerely hope he doesn't wear on a regular basis. A mistress would really only use one type of perfume, perhaps one that he bought her himself. But Reeves was wearing three different kinds of perfume, and they were cheap. Conclusion: he has loose women."

John nodded in disbelief. "Brilliant," he whispered, "just brilliant."

Sherlock smirked, never tiring from being complimented. Suddenly, Sherlock's phone rang. He snatched it out of his pocket and answered it. "Hello?"

"Sherlock? It's Lestrade."

"Inspector! What can I do for you?" Sherlock asked, grinning at the inevitable answer.

"Have you been following the recent deaths?"

Sherlock paused. "I might have looked at the papers." Sherlock heard a skirmish on the other end that sounded like someone fighting for the phone.

Finally, control was regained. "Look, freak," Donovan hissed, "the city of London is in a panic. Everybody's saying this is a conspiracy. You have to prove them wrong, and fast."

"What if this does end up being a conspiracy?"

Donovan grumbled curses under her breath before asking exasperatedly, "Will you do it?"

"Of course. We'll meet you tomorrow and see what little you have. Good-bye," Sherlock concluded as their taxi neared Baker Street.

"Who was that?" John asked as he paid the driver.

Sherlock unlocked the door excitedly. "Lestrade. We have a case, John! Mrs. Hudson!"

Mrs. Hudson emerged from her first-floor bedroom and looked about with the same innocent expression. "What is it, Sherlock? How was the dinner?"

"Awful," Sherlock answered, "but I have work to do! Work! Two murders, I love it! By the way, John and I won't be in tomorrow-" Sherlock bolted up the stairs after giving Mrs. Hudson a quick kiss on the cheek.

"That's nice, isn't it?" Mrs. Hudson asked no one in particular. She turned to see John hanging his jacket up. "Did you like the dinner, John?"

John shrugged. "It was alright."

"JOHN!" Sherlock called from upstairs.

"Better run," Mrs. Hudson warned. "You know how excited Sherlock gets when there's a murder."

John laughed and shook his head as he climbed the stairs to his flat-mate. "I know."


	2. Formulating Theories

**2**

Betty pulled out of the parking lot and joined other cars on the highway. It wasn't a long drive to her house, but Betty was still bitter. She turned off the highway and entered her neighborhood. It wasn't a rich part of London, but comfortable enough. Betty rubbed her arm gingerly and cursed loudly.

Once, just once, she glanced at her arm, and she narrowly missed a red light in the road. "I'm getting too old for this," Betty muttered, and started on her way again. It became increasingly harder for Betty to drive as the journey continued. As she reached her usual parking space, Betty lost control of the car. It screeched with newfound acceleration, and as soon as it gained speed, it lost it. Betty O'Brien crashed her car into her own house, and died instantly.

[0o0o0]

Sherlock tightened his scarf around his neck on the nippy September day. He turned to John, who somehow was still surprised to see a crime scene after many of their ordeals. After putting on latex gloves, Sherlock weaved his way through the yellow tape and reached the car. Although the car crash happened the previous night, the car still let off an eerie smoke into the street.

"Who is she?" John asked Lestrade.

"Betty O'Brien, sixty-two. From what we can see, she died on impact, but we don't know why she crashed. And," Lestrade added grumpily, "because of recent events, we have to take every death into consideration. Perhaps, even, connecting them to the other killings."

Sherlock examined the scene before him. He grazed the steering wheel with his gloved fingertips, and then studied the victim's shirt. Next, he looked at Betty's wrist, then her arms. Almost satisfied, Sherlock finished his findings by looking at the tire marks that led up to the crash. Grinning, he skillfully snapped off his latex gloves. "I believe it's safe to say that this murder is connected."

Lestrade looked up from his clipboard. "What? Murder?"

Sherlock nodded curtly. "That's right. It's murder, from what I can tell, anyway. I'm sure an autopsy will prove my theory."

"And, just what is your _theory_," inquired Anderson, emerging from behind the car and pronouncing the word 'theory' like it was a revolting insect.

Sherlock wrinkled his nose. "Ah, Anderson. I thought Lestrade would have gotten rid of by now, seeing as we can never seem to get along." He paused before beginning again. "The marks on this woman's shirt and on the steering wheel indicate that she was leaning against it before the crash and the airbag went off. It is logical to assume she was drunk. However, she is wearing a bracelet for a hospital, and has an injection mark on her arm. This may seem normal, but look at these tire tracks. Look!" Lestrade, Anderson, and John looked at them confusedly. "What? Do you not see?" Sherlock asked, shocked. "Why am I always surprised? It's like talking to infants. The tracks! They are too long for this to have been an accident. An accident would have left shorter, much darker tracks, but these are long and light. Why? Because something made this woman unconscious enough for her to lean forward on her steering wheel before the crash."

"Do you _ever_ get tired of showing off?" asked Anderson.

"No," Sherlock replied, "and do you want to know why? Never does ordinary mankind cease to amaze me at its stupidity! You are such a confused lot, aren't you? It must be horrible—"

"Can we get to the point, please?" Lestrade cut in.

"Well, we will know what killed her when the autopsy is completed," Sherlock said, walking away briskly and throwing away his gloves in a nearby bin.

"But, Sherlock!" Lestrade called. "The last two autopsies were inconclusive!" Sherlock pretended as if he didn't hear and continued walking, John in close pursuit.


End file.
